Hitler's peace

“Possibly.” Schellenberg took out a red leather Schildkraut cigarette case, a present from Lina, and offered Kersten one of his Jasmatzis. Lighting Kersten’s cigarette, he was close enough to see the strange black ring around the iris in each of the chiropractor’s blue eyes that lent them a strangely hypnotic aspect. This near to Kersten, it was easy enough to give credence to the rumor about his mesmeric influence on Himmler.

“Since we’re talking about saving lives, Felix, might I suggest you start carrying a gun yourself.”

“Me? Carry a gun? Why?”

“You have powerful friends. Among them I include myself. But, as a result of that, you also have powerful enemies. Heinrich Muller of the Gestapo, for one.”

“Oh, he won’t find anything on me.”

“No? There are some people in Germany who might argue that meeting members of the American intelligence services is prima facie evidence you are a spy.”

“I haven’t met anyone from American intelligence. The only American I’ve met while I’ve been in Stockholm has been Roosevelt’s special representative, Mr. Hewitt. He’s a New York attorney and a diplomat, not a spy.”

Schellenberg smiled. It always gave him a little thrill to present people with the evidence of their naivete. “Abram Stevens Hewitt,” he said. “Grandson of a former mayor of New York and a large contributor to the U.S. Democratic Party. Father a Boston banker. Graduate of Harvard and Oxford universities. Involved in a financial scandal involving the Ivan Kreuger Swedish Match company in 1932. Speaks fluent Swedish and German. And a member of the Office of Strategic Services since 1942. The OSS is an espionage and counterintelligence organization. Hewitt reports to the head of the Swedish station, Dr. Bruce Hopper, himself a former Harvard professor of government, and Wilko Tikander-”

“Not Wilko Tikander!” exclaimed Kersten.

“-a Finnish-American attorney from Chicago and chief of OSS operations here in Stockholm.” Schellenberg paused to allow the effect of his revelations to sink in. “Felix,” he added, “all I’m saying is that you need to be careful. Even if the Gestapo can’t discredit you-and there’s no doubt that won’t be easy so long as you enjoy Himmler’s confidence, which you do, obviously, since you are, as you say, here in Himmler’s name-even if they can’t discredit you in Himmler’s eyes, they might still decide to remove you. If you know what I mean.”

“You mean, kill me?”

“Yes. You have a wife and three sons. You owe it to them to be vigilant.”

“They wouldn’t harm them, would they?”

“No. Himmler wouldn’t allow that. But here, away from Germany, there’s a limit to what even Himmler can do. Do you know how to use a pistol?”

“Yes. During the war, the last war, I was in a Finnish regiment that fought the Russians.”

“Then take this.” Schellenberg handed him his Mauser; he had another one in his bag. “Keep it in your coat pocket, just in case. Only better not carry it around Himmler. He might think you don’t like him anymore.”

“Thank you, Walter. Is it loaded?”

“There’s a war on, Felix. It’s wise to assume that most guns are loaded.”

Kersten drew heavily on his cigarette and then stubbed it out, only half-smoked. He looked unhappily at the Mauser in his big hand and then shook his head.

“I can’t cure him, you know.”

“Who?”

“Himmler. He thinks he’s sick. But there is no cure because there’s no real illness. I can only alleviate the symptoms-the headaches, the stomach convulsions. Sometimes he thinks he has cancer. There is no cancer. But mostly he thinks his symptoms are caused by overwork, or even by a poor constitution. They’re not. There’s nothing physically wrong with the man.”

“Go on.”

“I’m afraid to.”

“I’m not your enemy, Felix.”

Kersten nodded. “I know, but still.”

“Are you saying he’s mentally ill?”

“No. Yes, in a way. He’s sick with guilt, Walter. He’s paralyzed with horror at what he has done and at what he continues to do.” Kersten shook his head.

“And is this why he has initiated these peace moves?”

“Only partly.”

“Personal ambition, I suppose. He wants to take over.”

“No. It’s not that. He’s actually much more loyal to Hitler than you might suppose, Walter.”

“What, then?”

“Something terrible. A secret I cannot reveal to anyone. Something Himmler told me. I can’t tell you.”

Schellenberg poured them each a drink and smiled. “Now I really am intrigued. All right. Let’s suppose for a minute that you’re going to tell me, but only on condition that we think of someone else who could have told me. Someone other than Himmler. Now, who else could that be?” He handed Kersten a glass of apricot brandy.

Kersten thought for a moment and then said, “Morell.”

Schellenberg wracked his brain for almost a minute, trying to think of a Morell with whom Kersten might be acquainted, and then felt his eyes widening with surprise.

“Not Theodor Morell.”

“Yes.”

“Jesus.” Theodor Morell was Hitler’s personal physician. “All right, if I’m ever tortured by the Gestapo, I’ll say it was Morell who told me.”